


Kiaralyn

by Saelengil



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, not entirely canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saelengil/pseuds/Saelengil
Summary: Probably a placeholder title and very much a WIP. Chapters may be edited/inserted or details changed as things progress.That said I do have this story reasonably planned out in advance, for a change. I will release parts of chapters at a time; and when I finish each "actual" chapter I will retroactively consolidate them.Disclaimer: Dragon Age was created by Bioware. I just mess around.
Relationships: Female Cousland & Fergus Cousland, Female Cousland/Dairren (Dragon Age), Fergus Cousland & Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Couslands

“On your guard, wretch!” The young woman danced around her opponent, sword up and eyes sparkling, and a playful smile teasing the corners of her lips. Both of them knew she hardly thought of the other as a foe, let alone a ‘wretch’, and he returned in kind as he brandished his own dulled blade.

“I’ll have your blood!”

“Oi, Fergus!” A third voice chimed in. “No bleedin’ yer sister, now!”

The familiar protest was accompanied by Kiaralyn Cousland’s former nanny. And she, in turn, was accompanied by an earthenware jug, which she thrust in front of Kiaralyn with a motherly huff. “Drink up, now.”

“Thanks, Nan,” Kiaralyn dropped her sword with a clatter and gratefully accepted her nanny’s gift. “You’re a lifesaver.” She tilted it back to drink greedily.

“Where’s _my_ water, Nan?” Kiaralyn’s brother spoke in a teasing whine, and Nan crossed her arms.

“Ye’ll get it when yer sister’s done,” Nan admonished. Then she turned her critical eye on Kiaralyn. “An’ the way yer guzzlin’ that, ye’d think we’s in some Tevinter desert, with nothin’ t’drink fer days!”

“See, Kia? You’re being rude…” Fergus pouted down toward his younger sister, and she laughed.

“Alright, alright; stop pouting, Fergus! You can have it now.” The back of her sweaty hand left a trace of salt as she wiped her mouth, and she made a face. Now it was Fergus turn to guzzle the water greedily.

Nan scoffed and returned to her chair by the door, back to the wall and crossed arms facing the practice yard. Her pointy nose was elevated ever so slightly in the air as she looked down it toward the Cousland siblings.

“Uncouth, the both of them,” she muttered, quite loud enough for them to hear. “An’ t’think they’re full grown lord an’ lady o’ the mighty house o’ Cousland. Ye’d think ‘em common brats!”

“We can hear you!” Kiaralyn protested over Fergus’s good-natured laughter. “Besides, this ‘practicing’ thing is harder than it looks.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Nan grumbled, “but it beats me why ya keep doin’ it.” The woman was clearly addressing Kiaralyn now, and Fergus buried his head in the water jug again. “It was all fine an’ good when ya jus’ wanted t’play with the boys, but yer not playin’ anymore!”

Kiaralyn sighed and stole the water jug back from her brother. She loved their Nan, but the old woman _still_ didn’t quite accept Kiaralyn’s daily practice bouts and regularly coaxed her to replace britches with skirts.

“There’s a Blight on its way, Nan. Darkspawn monsters – _literal_ monsters! – threatening good Fereldan homes.”

“Oh! An’ ya think ye’ll be in the fighting, do ya?” Nan’s glare dared Kiaralyn to argue, and the later thrust the cork lid back into the jar with an exasperated pop.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m as good a warrior as the next man. Better, if my duels with this lout are to be trusted.” She gestured at her brother, who let out a good-natured, “Hey!”

Nan sniffed and took the water jug away with a stiff jerk, setting it on the table beside her and crossing her arms again.

Kiaralyn sighed. She _was_ as good a warrior as any, and didn’t need to depend on duels with her brother to prove it. She’d faced off against many a young nobleman willing to test her mettle. Some of them did it to prove that their friend she’d vanquished was merely a sissy. Others did it because of the exotic nature of her very existence – a young warrior-maiden of noble stock, who dressed in breeches and rode like a man… It was entertainment to meet her, at the very least!

Still others hoped to marry into the family, and hoped that a duel with the young Lady Cousland would win them her favor or her heart. Kiaralyn couldn’t blame them over-much. In Ferelden, the Cousland family was second only to that of the King himself, after all.

Kiaralyn Cousland was far from undefeated in the dueling ring. But she _was_ good, and everyone in this yard knew it. They also knew why she wouldn’t be in the fight.

At age ten, two years before her birth, Fergus had gone to Court in Denerim to serve as a page and complete his martial training. Noble boys his age from all over the kingdom were there with him, and he could claim his best friend from amongst them. But the King’s court didn’t accept girls for training. Noble girls were supposed to complete their studies in the Chantry. So when Kiaralyn herself turned ten and insisted that, no, she did _not_ want to go ‘learn to be a lady’, her father arranged for private tutoring at home, in Highever.

At age fourteen, Fergus had pledged himself to the Crown as a squire. When he turned eighteen, he was knighted. But no woman had been accepted as King’s knight for over three hundred years. So, when Kiaralyn turned fourteen, her mother instead began to hint around Court that she had a daughter ready for engagement. Kiaralyn quickly got herself a reputation for chasing away every young suitor her mother found. Mostly by making it clear that she would _not_ be giving up her “masculine” pursuits and habits.

Now she was eighteen, not particularly pretty, and unmarried. In her mother’s book, she was a disaster. And the truth was that even though her father had supported her to this point, all that had gotten Kiaralyn was a set of well-honed skills that nobody – not even her father – was willing to use; because she was a woman.

Kiaralyn realized she was glaring at Nan’s forehead, and turned around abruptly on her heel. With short, sharp strides she returned to her practice blade, picked it up, and pointed it at Fergus. Fergus, who was twelve years her senior, pledged to the Crown, and would be leading the Cousland military forces south to the war on the morrow. While she stayed home. His eyes were sad. He probably knew what she was thinking.

“Another go?” he asked, and she nodded stiffly. They raised their swords tip-to-tip, and he gave the nod to begin. They traded a few blows, and as her blood got pumping and they circled one another, Kiaralyn felt herself relaxing into the familiar physicality of this little dance. She could almost forget-..

“Lady Kiaralyn?” A voice other than Nan’s interrupted from the doorway, and she sighed.

“Yes?” By instinct she summoned her inner lady – or was it outer? – as she turned, and her sword’s tip dropped to the packed dirt floor in front of her. She folded her hands over its hilt and waited. It was about as lady-like as she could get while armed and sweating like a pig in leather practice armor.

“Teyrn Cousland requests your presence in the main hall,” the messenger replied, and Kiaralyn nodded once, the movement as gentle as she could force herself to be.

“Did he say for what?” She managed to be soft-spoken and polite. Casual, as though she held hardly a care for the answer.

“I’m sorry, Lady Kiaralyn,” the man shook his head. With a sigh that turned out more explosive than she’d intended, Kiaralyn craned neck over shoulder to roll her eyes at Fergus.

“I had best see what our father wants, my brother,” she said, maintaining a half-formal bearing before the audience of her father’s messenger. “He most likely wishes me to know not to burn the castle down in your absence.”

“I was hoping that on the contrary, you would, my sister,” Fergus replied. “It would give us excuse to correct the awful interior design.”

Her father’s messenger coughed delicately from the doorway… to cover a snort.

Kiaralyn shoved the practice blade into its sheath and slung the sword belt over her shoulder. As she passed, she spared her disapproving nanny an affectionate glance.

“Your daily torture session’s over, Nan.”

“You’re ‘bout t’walk into the main hall in yer sweaty armor, right?” The woman scoffed and shook her head, but the corners of her lips were twitching. “Torment ain’t over yet. I’ll be in the kitchen, screamin’ just thinkin’ about it.”

Kiaralyn laughed, and followed the messenger to her father.

~

Mere hours later, Fergus was missing his own farewell feast. He could almost see it now as he sat shivering atop his ambling horse; the great firepit roaring in the main hall, with the long tables set up on either side. There’d be plenty of food, and drink, and music, and perhaps even dancing.

He couldn’t dance to save his life, but his wife could. Oriana was always so beautiful on festive nights like this, with her wine-red silks and Antivan airs. And here he was freezing in the wintry air when he should have been watching her. And drinking ale. Likely letting his tongue slip and thereafter being forced to fend off their little son’s questions. Just that morning he’d had to explain to young Oren the difference between a “wench” and a “wrench”.

Surely, important entities to keep separate in one’s mind. Wenches didn’t approve of being handled like wrenches. Not that he’d been handling any wenches recently. He had his Oriana to keep him busy. Or would, if he were back in Highever.

“Thinking about Oriana?” The voice interrupted his reverie. “Your eyes are glazing.”

“That’s _Lady_ Oriana, to you,” Fergus found himself replying, though not with any bite. Gareth was an old friend from his time at Court, and had certainly heard more than enough of Fergus’s mooning over his wife to justify his familiarity.

“Ah, yes; and surely you are Ser Fergus to me – or shall I call you Lord Cousland?”

“Maker, no! That’s my father,” Fergus chuckled. “ _I_ am Lord Fergus, the great and powerful.”

He struck a pose from atop his steed, and his fair-haired friend laughed easily. “You may call me Ser Gareth. No need for _that_ level of formality.”

“ _Me?_ Call _you_ , ‘Ser’? Perish the thought.”

They both laughed at that, but soon enough Fergus was slumping in his saddle again.

“Oh, cheer up, Fergus. While the others sit at home, we’re out here _doing_ something, at least...”

“Yes, Gareth,” he replied, dryly. “We’re freezing our arses off.”

For a while, they rode on through the craggy hills of the Highever coastlands of the North, the _chump-chump-chump_ of marching men drowning out their horses’ subtler _clip-clop_. And Fergus found his mind drifting back to Castle Cousland once again.

“What difference does a day make, anyway?”

“What?” Gareth looked at him quizzically.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing; I was thinking so loud it came out of my mouth.”

Gareth tugged his nose thoughtfully, an act that always made Fergus smile, since that nose was so small. Sometimes he wondered if Gareth had adopted the habit in an effort to make it longer.

“Cailan must be nervous, sending out his kingly call like that,” Gareth half-answered the question anyway. “To push for an early march, just to get a day’s jump does seem a bit excessive. We _were_ slated to leave tomorrow, right?”

Fergus nodded.

“Thought so. But you know how I forget the little details like that. In one ear, out the other.”

The two men smiled at the levity, but both had worried eyes. The truth was that the situation in the South was such that a single day could make _all_ the difference. The darkspawn were gathering and no one knew when they would attack, but everyone thought it would be soon. So, while his father waited back in Highever city for the rest of the northern forces, Fergus was leading the Cousland army south. It was a race to get to Fort Ostagar before the trouble began in earnest.

Gareth tugged his nose again, then suddenly turned in his saddle to survey the forces behind them. “Uh… Fergus,” he tapped his friend’s shoulder. “Why isn’t Amaranthine with us?”

“You _just_ noticed?” Fergus shook his head with a bemusement that grew when Gareth replied with a nod. “The Arl hasn’t yet graced Highever city with the presence of his levy,” Fergus sighed. “Only himself. He was a little vague on the details as to _why_ it is so hard to call his men to arms, but…” He spread his hands and shrugged. “That’s the way the cake crumbles, I suppose.”

“Coward,” Gareth muttered.

“He is my father’s friend,” Fergus snapped authoritatively, his easy demeanor melting away in a moment, “and fought alongside him to free Ferelden from Orlais’ tyranny. You know this.”

“I… apologize.”

Gareth’s eyes flashed as he replied; and as his back straightened, Fergus felt a surge of regret. Not because he had erred, but because he had unwittingly reminded his friend of what would always separate them, even if only by a hair’s breadth. They liked to think there were no barriers between them, that they were just two noblemen in a sea of noblemen’s sons. But the truth was that if Cailan and his Queen didn’t produce a child soon…

Fergus shook head. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that _he_ might rule all Ferelden. Highever Teyrnir was more than enough for him. Besides, the difference in rank hadn’t kept his father and Arl Howe from keeping a fast friendship through the years. Gareth and he would be no different. Fergus hadn’t intended for this disagreement between friends to become a matter of command and obeisance. He just needed to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Gareth,” he sighed. “But you _know_ better. Rendon Howe’s no coward. His troops _will_ come, and he will march with my father to join us.”

“Not a coward, then,” his friend admitted, smoothing things over with a smile. “But his troops _are_ unfashionably late,” he jabbed the air with a finger, “and I would like to know why. We’ll be lucky if the delay they’ve caused hasn’t made us all late for that ‘fun’ we have planned down South.”

Fergus nodded glumly. “I’d like to know why, too.”

He glanced toward the sun, shining brightly through a bright blue sky that was just beginning to blush, and gently encouraged his horse to pick up the pace. “We’re losing daylight. Best make it to the rally point.”

Gareth nodded, and the _chump-chump-chump_ of the march took over once again.

~

Her brother’s absence made the festivities rather unappealing to Kiaralyn. So, she spent the time shoving bits of roast pork round and round her plate and staring into her watered wine. It wasn’t just that conversation was far less entertaining without him around to throw chaos into it, but the fact that he was riding off to protect their nation while she was stuck sitting at home… in a _dress_.

Now that she thought about it, her sour mood and lack of appetite may have had more to do with where she’d been seated, which was with her mother on her right, and a rather uncomfortable-looking young man on her left. Kiaralyn was fairly certain that this Dairren Loren was being trapped there by a mother too – his own, in his case.

Lady Loren not only completed the suffocating sandwich by sitting on his far side, but was leaning so aggressively toward Kiaralyn that she had inserted herself between son and plate and was pinning him to the back of his seat. Kiaralyn was vaguely aware that the mothers were discussing her, but she wasn’t really listening. Once in a while she caught a word like “beautiful” or “lovely”, or a phrase like “you should see her when…”

It was a true struggle not to roll her eyes. She was beginning to worry they would cross themselves permanently. That same mother of hers that so _obviously_ brought attention to Kiaralyn’s “attractiveness” had privately bemoaned her striking lack thereof. She had a boyish face, she’d been told, with a square jaw and undefined cheekbones. Her beaky nose was too big for her profile, her gray eyes uncomfortably piercing, and her hair too dark and too harsh.

Her looks only bothered her when people complimented the ones she didn’t have.

An unfamiliar voice interrupted her thoughts, and she forced her gaze up from her plate.

“I’m sorry,” she said, keenly feeling the mothers’ eyes on her. “What did you say?”

Lord Dairren smiled and repeated himself. “You seem distracted, are you alright?”

“Oh! Yes. I’m fine,” she laughed, not really caring that her mirth sounded false. “I was thinking about the art of flattery. Sometimes I rather think it like a greatsword: far too heavy to wield gracefully one-handed, and yet so often people try.”

Kiaralyn could see her mother’s head shake despairingly out of the corner of her eye, but Dairren reacted only by lifting an eyebrow.

“Your prowess with the blade is most impressive; though I must confess I’ve not seen you try _your_ hand at the greatsword.”

“Believe me, I have. I can handle one, but even I’ll admit they’re too heavy for me. I generally prefer a broadsword.” Kiaralyn bit her lip thoughtfully. “Or a rapier. I like my weapons light.”

“ _I_ was quite the battle maiden myself, in my day,” her mother’s voice cut into the conversation. The voice warned of incoming criticism, and Lady Cousland did not disappoint. “I think it was the _softer_ arts that helped me land a husband.”

Dairren chuckled awkwardly and reached past his encroaching mother for his winecup. It was almost comical how quickly she had to move to get out of his way, and his gesture had the curious effect of inspiring Kiaralyn to rebellion.

“Do I look soft to you, my mother?” Her voice was sweet and gentle, but she’d laid a bare arm upon the table; and when she flexed it, it became quite clear that Kiaralyn was far from a delicate daisy. The subtle ripple of muscle elicited a little gasp of shock from Lady Loren. Suddenly Lord Dairren was coughing into his wine.

After a moment of consternation, Kiaralyn realized that it was quite possible that he was laughing.

She picked up her cup and settled back in her chair to watch him set aside his wine and dry at his lips with a towel. Kiaralyn was strangely reminded of an overstuffed marionette doll going through the motions that its handler directed. He was wearing an ornate shirt decorated with fiery orange-red embroidery that was so bright it almost hurt to look at. It was the same colour as his hair.

Her lips twitched despite herself, and when she looked at his eyes his eyebrows were curiously raised. Kiaralyn lowered her cup to the table with a clunk.

“If you promise not to mention either marriage _or_ beauty, you may walk with me,” she offered bluntly. “If I hear another mention of either, I may very well scream.”

“Daughter!” Her mother chided, green skirts rustling as she stiffened abruptly. But Kiaralyn had ears only for Dairren’s reply, which was a quick acceptance.

“Now?” She pushed back her chair.

“Now.” He nodded as he stood, and offered her his arm with a slight bow.

Kiaralyn took it, and with a genuine smile allowed him to lead her from the room.

~

Kiaralyn hadn’t thought to bring her cloak, since the great hall was always so warm. Now that they were outside in the chilly night air, she regretted that. Her shiver caught Dairren’s attention and he glanced at her, but said nothing.

For a while, they simply wandered the castle corridors without speaking. Both seemed content enough to be out in the fresh air and away from the noise of the feast, but neither seemed to know how to begin the conversation again. Eventually, Kiaralyn began to wonder if he _wanted_ to talk with her after all. She had a reputation for scaring menfolk off, and it occurred to her and her little display of physicality might have already done precisely that. Gently, she extricated her hand from the crook of his arm.

“I’m sorry, uh, about that,” she gestured over her shoulder as they walked. “I guess I assumed you’d _want_ to walk with me. Which… maybe you don’t. Especially after being witness to the Lady Kiaralyn version of a temper tantrum.”

He cleared his throat as he glanced at her, then smiled. “I did wish to walk with you. But… What do you mean, my lady, by a temper tantrum?”

“I was frustrated, and acting provocatively to annoy my mother,” Kiaralyn clarified matter-of-factly. “You’re not seeing me at my best, Lord Dairren.”

He brought a thumb and forefinger to his lip for a moment of thought, then smiled and flicked his fingers dismissively. “Perhaps not, Lady Kiaralyn. But it is difficult to be always at one’s best.”

“That’s… true,” Kiaralyn replied, peering at him curiously. He did seem more comfortable now that they were alone, even if he did continue to speak as formally as he did. She averted her gaze when he glanced down. “Do you always choose your words so carefully, Lord Dairren?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know… As if the wrong ones might break something fragile? Or someone, I suppose.”

His fingers had absent-mindedly returned to his lips again, and they remained there as he answered.

“Yes,” he answered simply. When she raised an eyebrow, he elaborated. “Words are… versatile. They can hurt, cheer, divert, inform... Which of these they are is a matter of which words you use, so… I prefer to choose with care rather than be swept up and away by my own tongue.”

Kiaralyn half-frowned. “Isn’t that a bit… dishonest? To so carefully craft what you say, rather than being honest about what you think?”

He glanced at her quickly with a momentary frown that turned into a bemused smile. “Did you intend that question as an insult?” Her eyes widened with surprise, and he elaborated. “I know you did not. But many would take your words – your ‘honesty’ – as an accusation: you calling me a liar.”

She played with the collar of her dress. “Uh… yes,” she admitted. “I do tend to insult people by accident.”

“Is such a miscommunication truly more honest than if you had not spoken at all?” He watched her thoughtfully, but his eyes were friendly. “I choose my words carefully, to say precisely what I intend to say. As a result, I often do _not_ say what I think; but when I do I am rarely misunderstood. Your words share your thoughts freely when you think them, your emotions honestly when you feel them; and sometimes they come out ‘wrong’.”

They had stopped walking in the middle of the corridor, and with a gesture he suggested they continue.

“Neither _modus operandi_ is more dishonest than the other, I think,” he glanced at her again. “It is a matter of style and priorities. We are _both_ capable of lying and concealing information, I am sure; and when we do, I’m as sure we do _that_ differently, too.”

“I… find your style refreshing, when you indulge it. Unconventional, and perhaps uncomfortable at times. But refreshingly lively and…” He cleared his throat. “I think that ‘unguarded’ is perhaps the best word.”

For a while, Kiaralyn didn’t quite know how to reply. “I suppose you intended to render me sheepishly speechless?” She smiled slightly, and he chuckled quietly.

“Yes, Lady Kiaralyn,” he admitted. “But only slightly sheepish and a little speechless. If I have done worse than that, I apologize; and you may freely use this as a counter-example to my point.”

“No, I think you were spot on,” she chuckled too, and reached out to tug his sleeve. “Lord Dairren, I would like to show you something, if you don’t mind?”

Up went those quizzical eyebrows, and he offered his arm again. “Of course, my lady.”

They walked on hand on arm, and it was with some surprise that Kiaralyn found herself looking forward to the rest of the evening.

~

Kiaralyn smiled as she took a leisurely route to her room. She would stop by the kennel to pick up her hound on the way, and it felt like a fine end to a fine evening. Her heart was light and the wintry air didn’t feel particularly cold anymore. She had even, for the moment, forgiven her mother’s bothersome meddling.

It had led to the walk with Dairren, after all.

She smiled at how easily his name came to her, now. Dairren. Not the stuffy ‘Lord Loren the Younger’, nor the socially-acceptable ‘Lord Dairren’. Simply, ‘Dairren’. It was far too early to tell whether this cautious cordiality would grow into something more, but there was no denying Kiaralyn had enjoyed his company, and felt freer to be herself with him than she had with anybody in…

Well… in a long time. Perhaps ever? This would have been the reality of life for _any_ Lady of the Cousland family, but for Kiaralyn and her… eccentricities… this was even more so.

At least, it felt like it.

It seemed that Dairren had felt similarly, to an extent at least. It was admittedly difficult to tell with a man that so carefully considered what he said before he said it. But his admiration of her grandfather’s library had been apparent, even as he had pretended to be more interested in her than the books she had taken him to see.

Kiaralyn was sure he had been pretending. She knew her own capacities, of which she could proudly say there were many. Capturing and keeping another’s interest with her looks, charm, and non-existent silver tongue were not among them. Still, Dairren’s interest in her had _felt_ genuine, and he hadn’t seemed to mind limiting his perusal of her father’s library to the sections Kiaralyn found more interesting.

She’d left the study door unlocked, and hinted quite strongly that he was free to visit it as he liked. They’d parted for the evening in the hall outside, and when Kiaralyn rounded the corner she thought she caught sight of the study door closing behind someone.

The thought made her smile. That study had barely been used since her grandfather’s passing. It would do it good to be visited by someone like Dairren.

~

Arcadia was doing well when Kiaralyn picked her up. The hound had been put in the kennels during the feast to keep her out of the way; a practice that Kiaralyn did not appreciate. She would have preferred to keep the mabari by her side always, but at least is was a _nice_ kennel. Not a dungeon like some were.

It was amazing, the canine powers of smell. Arkady was already waiting by the door when Kiaralyn opened it. As the dog flopped over for belly rubs, she knelt down to say hello.

“Who’s a good girl, hm? Yes! You are!!”

“Hmph. Milady?”

When Kiaralyn was kneeling and the dwarven kennel-mistress was standing, they were eye-to-eye.

“She actually was a very _bad_ dog,” the other woman said. “Got into the kitchen again when I took her out for a walk.”

“Oh,” Kiaralyn looked down sternly, and Arcadia sat up at attention. Back straight and ears up and eyes wide in a perfect ‘I didn’t do it!’ stance.

The kennel-mistress laughed. “It’s hard to be angry at that’un long, that’s fer sure,” she shook her head. “Anyhow, figured ya ought t’at least know.”

“Thanks, Jayla.”

“Cook almost quit,” the dwarf warned.

“Nan raised both me and my brother before becoming the cook,” Kiaralyn replied with a smile and a dismissive flapping of her hand. She stood to go, and on her way out the door added, “She wouldn’t quit. But I’ll make it up to her! Flowers or something.”

“You do that, milady. Else she might bite my head clear off next time!”

They chuckled together, and Kiaralyn made her way up toward the bedchamber level of the castle. Arcadia’s claws clicked on the stone by her side. The woman looked down.

“If mabari weren’t so smart, they wouldn’t be allowed in castles at all,” she half-scolded, “and part of being smart is not messing with Nan’s kitchen!”

The dog whined stubbornly with that strange mix of submission and headstrength that was so uniquely hers.

“I’ll bet you mabari ‘pick’ a human to bond with to make sure you’ve got an advocate who can hardly live without you, hmm?”

Another whine.

“It’s almost magical, hm? You cast a spell on me?” Kiaralyn laughed at herself, but was _almost_ serious. Mabari were truly a special breed; they were intelligent enough to understand chained commands and somewhat complex ideas, picked their own masters, and bonded with them for life. In Ferelden, it was considered a crime to separate a mabari from the human it had chosen, mostly for the harm it did the dog. Though it did considerable harm to the human, too. Arcadia had chosen Kiaralyn two years ago, and she could barely conceive of life without her anymore. It was a good thing mabari were so long-lived.

They were still on a leisurely route through the castle corridors when the voice came from the shadows, nonthreatening but startling none-the-less. “Lady Kiaralyn,” the man’s voice was solemn and deep.

“My name is Duncan.”


	2. Attack

Dairren reached the bottom of a page and flipped it, enjoying the familiar rustle of the paper as it turned. This study was truly a treasure trove of so many books of so many kinds; many of them rare. He wished he had something like this back home in Caer Oswin… But they didn’t. Dairren was fairly certain that some of these books were the originals of uncopied works – in other words, priceless. And the Loren family held but a minor fiefdom in this day and age.

Caer Oswin had, as the name suggested, once upon a time been the capitol of Oswin Bannorn. It was that no longer, the family felled by the ravages of time and politics. Mostly politics, if Dairren was to be honest with himself. His ancestors were not known for their fidelity to anyone but themselves.

Dairren shook his head and tried to bring his focus back to the book laid open on the table. Those were his ancestors, not him, nor his father. And a minor fiefdom was more than many good Fereldans had. He would be content to inherit it. In fact, he would have been _more_ content _not_ to inherit it. As a boy he had dreamed not of great halls and feasting, but libraries and prayer.

He made a face at himself. That was a lie. Even he hadn’t ‘dreamt’ of prayer. But he _had_ considered devoting himself to the Chantry for the books, and for a life of study. His father had made it clear that such a life was not an option for the heir of Caer Oswin. In time, Dairren had come to accept that, but he’d never lost his love of books.

It had been nice of Kiaralyn to leave this study open for his use. He was surprised she’d been so perceptive as to guess that he would like it.

His eyebrows pulled together. They had passed an unusually pleasant evening together, but he knew better than to let his thoughts linger on the Lady Kiaralyn. She was notorious for turning away her suitors, and if _she_ didn’t turn him away her family would for want of a better match. The Lorens didn’t have much to offer a family as powerful as the Couslands.

Dairren shook his head again, and this time he truly did turn back to the book. It was an analysis of the circumstances and politics of the Winter Famine of 9:03, and its impact on Fereldan society. Fascinating work, by a well-respected researcher based in the tiny Honnleath Chantry, of all places.

A content frown of concentration on his lips, he got started on the next page.

~

Kiaralyn glanced through the window of her bedchamber. The moon was high in the sky and out of sight, but the roofs outside well-lit. That meant that it was deep into the night. On any other night, she might have grumbled and pulled a pillow over her head, frustrated by this lack of sleep and blaming some aspect of the world or other for it. But tonight, she had only her own thoughts to blame, and they were too important to grumble at.

Quietly, she turned her eyes back to the ceiling and stared.

This Duncan, she had heard of him. Father had intended to introduce them, in fact, but Kiaralyn had gotten whisked away by her mother for ‘preparations’ for the feast. It was amazing how much time a noblewoman could take to ‘prepare’ for a feast. All the dresses and makeup and coiling of hair… It was such a waste.

But that was a tangent, and Kiaralyn pulled her mind back on track. Duncan, _Warden_ -Commander Duncan, was a Grey Warden; one of those legendary warriors who dedicated their lives to guarding against and stopping Blights of darskspawn. Blights precisely like this war that was just beginning to lick at the South, and threatened to ravish the North if left unchecked. The Grey Wardens had somehow known that the Blight was coming before it had arrived, and they were the ones to thank for the advance warning Ferelden had gotten of this threat. Even if that advance had been slim.

She stirred beneath the heavy blankets that staved off the winter’s chill. To be fair, the Wardens had been practically forgotten by most; relegated to mere legend. They had kept to their western fortress for hundreds of years, keeping watch in stoic silence. But at least they’d had a _purpose_. Sometimes, Kiaralyn didn’t feel she had a purpose.

Duncan had offered her a place with the Wardens that evening and she had said no. Had she just missed her one and only chance to actually _use_ her Maker-given and hard-won skills for something valuable?

Suddenly a familiar whine interrupted her darkening thoughts, and Kiaralyn grumbled out an annoyed, “What’s it, dog?”

Slowly, she got to her feet.

~

Dairren was reading about the Wilder Raids of 9:04 (a direct consequence of the Winter Famine) when he began to hear the shuffling, and it was with a small sigh that he realized that the feasting must have ended for the evening. All the lords and ladies would be retiring to their chambers, which meant that there was a non-zero chance that his mother would be sending her maid to look for him, soon.

He considered going back to their rooms on his own initiative. That would be the responsible thing to do… But these _books_! It was almost embarrassing how light and young at heart this room made him feel. And he was nearing the end of a chapter.

He sighed again. Perhaps Mother would think him still with Kiaralyn. She had wanted him to spend time with her, after all. Wanted him to get her pregnant, in fact.

Dairren picked up his book with a scowl. Mother, indeed. Mother could wait.

~

 _At least my dog thinks I have a purpose_ , Kiaralyn thought dryly. Even if that purpose was merely to get up in the middle of the night to let her out into the courtyard, or to let her back in to sleep. The hound was spoiled for sure. But now her whines turned into insistent growls and the woman stopped in her tracks.

“What is it, Arcadia?” The growls were slowly waking her from the half-dreaming state her thoughts had carried her to.

The growls became urgent barks. Perplexed, Kiaralyn joined the dog by the door.

~

Dairren yawned as he finished the chapter and stood, wondering if there was anything around for him to mark his place with. As he picked up the candlestick, he frowned. The candle had burned down to barely more than a stub.

Just how late _was_ it? He had heard-.. no, that wasn’t right; he was _still_ hearing that quiet shuffling outside.

His eyebrows yanked together. He had been near the chapter’s end, but not so near that the great hall should still be emptying of its guests. He closed the book in his hand with a snap, and as if that were a signal there came from outside the sudden ringing of two swords meeting with full force.

Blinking with confusion, Dairren set the book gently on the table and walked out of the private study, through the public library, and to the door that lead outside. He put his hand on the knob and turned it, and it was as he opened it that the halls of Castle Cousland dissolved into madness.

~

Both woman and hound leapt back as the door flew open.

“Milady! We’re under at-..aahk!”

The warning ended with a gurgle as the man toppled into her arms, an arrow protruding from his back. There was a man behind him. A man with a bow. When Kiaralyn desperately hoisted the dead servant in her arms and ducked behind the makeshift shield, the penetrating _phhtnk_ made her sick to her stomach. But she had no time to dwell on it.

With a battle-howl Arcadia charged out of the room, straight toward their attacker.

Kiaralyn dumped the faithful servant in her arms unceremoniously aside and dove for a weapon. Any weapon. She didn’t _keep_ weapons in her bedchamber. It felt like a foolish oversight, now.

Arcadia yelped in pain, and Kiaralyn looked her way frantically. The hound had been kicked harshly and was slowly standing, shaking her canine head to clear it of haze.

Kiaralyn’s hands closed around the legs of a wooden stool. It would have to do. She charged into the doorway.

“Face me!”

The command was unnecessary for the two men already moving toward the bedroom. Arcadia leapt toward one from behind, latching onto the man’s ankle. But there were men trying to break down her parents’ door, too. It was holding, bouncing against the frame in a way that said it was being braced bodily from the other side. The Teyrn and Teyrna were in there, under attack. Her parents.

Kiaralyn knew her duty and her heart. She had to get those men away from that door.

“Face me!” She called again, voice so loud it echoed from the walls and ceiling. “If you _dare_!” She was armed with nothing but a wooden stool and wearing nothing but a linen shift, but her fierce eyes challenged their attackers to come closer.

They dared, and so began the longest night of her life.

~

 _Treason!_ Dairren slammed the library door shut as soon as he had opened it. A glance outside had been enough to tell the tale of _Treason!_

Open fighting in the corridor, soldier pitted against soldier. Servants murdered without mercy, sprawled in crimson pools of blood. They hadn’t known to scream, but their images screamed of _Treason!_

He tried not to waste time upon the thought that shoved itself into his mind over and over again. He had closed the door on instinct, and now he bolted it. Had he been spotted? Was _he_ a target? Would they hunt him down? The sight of the serving lad outside came to mind; very common and very dead. If any were to leave these halls alive, would it not be him? Perhaps he had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then, so too was Dairren…

He had wasted too much time on thought, and his questions were now answered. The knob before him turned, a shoulder thrown against the heavy wood... and again. And again. How many would be waiting for him outside?

Dairren was not a fighter, but his hands found a candelabra nevertheless. It was heavy; pewter, perhaps. Unwieldy, but if he aimed well… He adjusted his grip, as if it were a halberd, and listened to the steady beating on the door. A single soldier, he guessed, not yet joined by any other. But that couldn’t last long; the man would call for help with the door, or be offered it. Speed was of the essence.

Dairren pressed himself alongside the door, up against the wall, heart racing. A deep breath, then another, and with adrenaline-fueled strength he _swung_. Up went the candelabra in an arc, catching the heavy bolt and knocking it off its hooks. Open flew the door, and down crashed the heavy candle-stand, right onto his assailant’s helmeted head.

The loud crash was made louder when Dairren promptly dropped the heavy weight, and the soldier crumpled to the ground. Quickly Dairren crouched, pulling him through the door and closing it behind him. A tense moment passed while he listened. A breath released as he relaxed the slightest bit. It seemed he’d saved himself… For the moment.

But what to do next? He frowned down at the man before him, knocked out cold. His eyes widened as they grazed across the symbols on his shield.

 _Treason!_ Of far worse a kind than _ever_ he would have imagined.

~

“These,” shouted Kiaralyn as she parried desperately with her dagger, “are ARL HOWE’s men, Mother!”

“I see that, Darling. Left!”

Kiaralyn stabbed left, getting lucky and hitting a weak joint in the armor.

“Right!!”

As the man fell, she lost the dagger but stole his sword and parried right. Shoved her assailant back and kicked another one in the chest. Arcadia leapt upon him as he stumbled, knocking him over and pinning him down.

 _I can’t keep this up_ , she knew. It wasn’t really a realization, but a reiteration of something so obvious that had she said it aloud in a lighter moment, she’d have rolled her eyes. But she knew her duty and her heart: defend the Teyrna. Defend her mother. Find the Teyrn. Defend him, too.

Defend them to the end. Unfortunately, it seemed ‘the end’ would be coming sooner rather than later.

Little Oren was already dead, and his mother beside him. Poor Fergus. Where was Father? He hadn’t come to bed. He was downstairs, surely; with the viper himself. _Rendon Howe_. One of Father’s most dependable friends, they’d thought.

_We were wrong._

She stabbed someone through the chest and seized his shield as he fell, hurling it in another’s general direction. She missed, but he toppled backward anyway.

“Good shot!” Kiaralyn shouted.

“Thank you, Darling!”

Mother hadn’t nocked an arrow since the revolt against Orlais and it showed. But flying arrows that missed were better than none, as long as they missed Kiaralyn, too. Besides, once in a while, they hit. They advanced down the hall, Arcadia’s teeth bared in a constant snarl.

“Right!”

Kiaralyn parried again.

~

Dairren may not have been a fighter, but it wasn’t for lack of training. He couldn’t reach all the buckles without help but the armour went on quickly from experience, and fit better than he’d hoped. He unsheathed the soldier’s sword and tested it a few times. He would never be an expert but he wouldn’t be entirely helpless.

He crouched one last time beside his handiwork, lying on the ground beneath him. The soldier’s hair was brown, not fiery red; but when dressed in that foppish outfit Mother had selected, he rather _did_ look the part of a young Lord Dairren. If only because the outfit simply _screamed_ for attention. In a lighter moment, he would have laughed softly at his observation. Now he had no time.

His eyes landed on the soldier’s shield, that proclaimed him as from Amaranthine. He hated to raise a traitor’s colours, but now they were necessary for his mission. Dairren buckled it to his arm, opened the door, and stepped out into hell once more.

~

“Listen to me, Darling.”

“I’m listening with my ears!” Kiaralyn’s shield arm had long gone numb. “I’m just _busy_ with my eyes.” There was something surreal about holding a conversation while fighting desperately for one’s life in one’s own home.

“We _must_ find Bryce.”

Arcadia barked once in agreement, but Kiaralyn didn’t waste breath on a response. She knew that.

“And then we must flee the castle.”

“What??”

Of course, Kiaralyn knew somewhere in her mind that her mother was right. But something about fighting so hard just to give up felt… It sapped some of her strength, and she couldn’t afford that right now. So, she argued. “We can’t just let Howe win!”

“Don’t be stupid!” They’d earned a brief respite from battle and now simply ran, side-by-side toward the main hall, Arcadia in the lead. The wall hangings were all on fire, as were the potted trees. “That man has _already_ won the castle, Kiaralyn. You only give him _more_ by dying here!”

Kiaralyn didn’t reply and raised her shield to block left.

~

Dairren knew he only half-looked the part as he ran through the burning halls of Castle Cousland. One of Howe’s men would have been charging into the fray, but he was running away from it. He wasn’t a coward, but if he entered battle he would be forced to fight; and he’d be fighting on the traitor’s side. He didn’t want that. He wanted to get upstairs. It was his best guess as to his mother’s location.

But when he rounded the corner he ran right into them, and barely had time to react before someone grabbed his shoulder. Dairren stiffened, sword-arm half-raised, ready to fight his way out or die trying. It took a moment for his brain to kick in and lower the blade. He was at a disadvantage but perhaps he could bluff his way.

“Ey! Lad! Relax! Yer leavin’ the fightin’, ey?”

“No, sir!” Dairren didn’t know his rank, but ‘sir’ seemed a safe bet.

“Ey, e’s got the voice of a lord, don’t he?”

“Pro’ly some lordling who ain’t seen a fight up close before and’s turned tail.”

“Ah… no…” Dairren struggled to keep up as the men bantered around him. “I’ve been sent to… look for the Teyrn…”

“Well why didn’t ya say so?” The man holding his shoulder clapped it instead. “Us too, though we ain’t the first. Man’s gone missin’. C’mon lordling, let’s go!”

“Ey, stuff it! I’m no lord!” Dairren tried to affect an accent to limited success.

“If’n ye say,” the man shrugged. “But I’m a’call ya lordling anyway.”

Surrounded by the enemy, Dairren jogged up the stairs.

~

“Bryce!”

Kiaralyn closed her eyes against the anguish in her mother’s voice. The sadness in Arcadia’s anxious whine. The sight that greeted them each time she opened them. All this fighting, all this pain and struggle, and it ended like _this?_ No. She refused to believe it.

“Get up, Father,” she opened her eyes. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“We’ll get you healing magic,” Mother was anxiously inspecting his wounds, mouth set in a thin line. They were in the larder, of all places. Which might have seemed ludicrous given the circumstances were you not a Cousland.

“The passage is right here, Father. We can make it!”

“The castle is surrounded, Pup,” he sighed. A tired sound. “I can’t make it.”

“Yes, you _can_ ; get up! Here, I’ll help you,” she reached beneath his shoulders but his groan of pain and her mother’s sharp hiss made her stop.

“I’m… sorry, Pup…”

His trembling hand reached up to wipe her cheek, and she realized she was crying.

~

Dairren stood at attention with the other soldiers and stared numbly at the floor. He knew he had to pay attention to his surroundings but…

He kept seeing her body on the floor, sprawled and pale, drained of blood and life. They’d stabbed her so many times her entire nightgown had dyed red. He began to sway forward, and the man on his left gave him an elbow jab.

He shook the vision from his mind and focused on the back of Arl Howe’s head. If only he could kill with looks, he would… Though taking as many daggers to his body as had been taken to his mother’s would be more satisfying. If anything could be satisfying now.

“M’lord! We’ve found the Teyrn!” A soldier ran up, jingling and clanking; looking so proud.

“I am Teyrn now,” Howe snapped. Then relented and gave the man a clap on the shoulder. It was a little too hard, and the eager fellow staggered. “Good work. Now take me to him.”

Dairren shuffled forward, carried along by the other soldiers. How he had ended up in the traitor’s personal detail, he couldn’t remember. But he had, sometime after…

STOP. He forced his mind away from the rooms upstairs and back to Howe’s stupid, shriveled head. He imagined it shriveling even more, compressing and crumpling in upon itself…

“Oh,” the Arl was in the larder now, his detail standing guard duty in the kitchen. Dairren couldn’t see what the man was looking at, but he sounded bored.

“You didn’t tell me he was dead,” Howe continued lazily. “And the Teyrna, too? A shame. That complicates things. I was rather hoping to marry her.”

“You don’t need her to strengthen your claim, my lord,” a new voice simpered. “Once Lord Fergus is dealt with, there won’t _be_ anyone to challenge it.”

“True…” There was a tapping sound, as though someone were flapping a leather glove against something. The tapping suddenly stopped, and when the Arl spoke again it was with a chilly disgust that exuded distaste and disappointment.

“Where’s the girl?”

~

Three days into the journey south, Fergus sighed from atop his dusty, tired steed. If _he_ was tired, and his mount was dragging, he could only imagine how miserable his men felt as they trudged through the mud. Not that Fergus never walked alongside the troops, but sometimes a column needed a leader; and it was easier to see that leader when he was sitting on top of something.

He sighed again and looked around. If all went well they would achieve Lothering in four days’ time, and Fort Ostagar within eight. But for now, they were quite frankly in the middle of nowhere. The Bannorn was a mess of muddy ravines and wooded hills where time (and water from the mountains) had slowly carved its mark upon the land. The wilderness was dotted with the keeps and fortresses of dozens of minor lords, but it was far from tamed.

The Fereldans liked it that way, or were supposed to, at least. At the moment, Fergus couldn’t say that he was particularly enjoying the mud; but it had served them well against the heavily-armored Orlesian chevaliers during the rebellion. Perhaps this was why muddy roads and shabby armor were, apparently, a source of national pride. Fergus smiled at the thought, despite the boredom of the slow trudge.

 _Phht!_ He jerked as something flashed by him and disappeared into the mud of the narrow ravine. It was followed by another flash that ended in a soldier’s scream. “ARCHERS!” Someone yelled, and Fergus felt a weight crash into him from beside as someone grappled him. They fell to the ground in a tangle, and on instinct he shoved the other man aside and reached up to hoist himself back onto his horse.

“Stay low!” The man who’d felled him snapped, leaning up on an elbow and swiftly drawing his sword. It was Gareth. “Height makes you an easy mark, idiot.”

The ravine was full of confusion as their own archers raised their bows and aimed them here and there. Officers were tumbling off their horses. Men were shouting and taking cover where they could, but they didn’t know where to face their shields. Their attackers were well hidden, and saving their arrows it seemed. Perhaps to avoid giving away their position.

 _Phhtt!_ Another dart of death sunk into the mud next to Fergus and he rolled away with a curse. Gareth leapt up immediately to point toward the offending tree with his sword, and a hail of arrows immediately followed his gesture. They were rewarded with a dead sniper tumbling into the valley. The sudden noise and movement spooked the horses and suddenly those laying low to the ground were scrambling to escape their hooves. Frenzied neighs and squeals filled the air.

Fergus was on his feet now, too, sword drawn and shield ready. “To me!” He raised his own sword toward the sky to mark his location, and soldiers began clustering around him. The archers were busy, shooting blindly into the trees that loomed over the valley, but the infantry were like sitting ducks in the mud. “Gareth, take some, shield the archers,” Fergus commanded. “You,” he swept his arm to indicate a chunk of the crowding men. “With me!”

As he turned toward what he hoped was a way up the steep hillside, a hail of arrows plummeted around him. He snatched his arm away with a hiss as one of the projectiles grazed his shoulder.

_Are they targeting me?_

As if to answer his question, someone cried out, “Protect the Teyrn’s son!!”

A wall of shields closed around him, and the concealed archers that apparently flanked the ravine finally let loose. Their arrows rained death into the valley.

“Stop! Don’t! Take cover!!” Fergus commanded, then pleaded as the men forming their shell around him died, and others took their place. A frenzied glance down the ravine told him that Gareth’s men, at least, were doing as he’d commanded. Their own archers were enclosed in a turtle shell, doing their best to bring down their attackers. Men unseen in the bushes were revealed as Cousland archers found their marks. Their bodies tumbled down into the ravine, but not as fast as Fergus’s men were dying.

“With me!” Fergus had to yell over the din of wounded men and angered shouts, and pushed his weight against the human shield around him. “We’re going up there,” he ground out, shoving again.

He’d been right about the hillside, and like a slow-moving turtle the formation made their way up. Arrows began to pelt off the wooden ceiling over their heads, and a voice by his ear asked for “Orders?”

Fergus didn’t have time or information for careful tactics. He could barely see out of the shield wall protecting him. “You figure out where they are, you charge,” he replied grimly.

“Aye!” The voices rumbled readily around him. Fergus was truly blessed in his men… And a woman, he realized. As they crested the hill, she broke formation.

“There!” She hurtled away, shield before her and axe ready.

“CHARGE!” Fergus hollered. He felt like an idiot, blindly following her. But that was what soldiers did all the time. And once a few of them broke from the turtle shell, history and experience informed that it was best to become fast-moving targets rather than a slow-moving suit of armor with a gaping weakness.

So, they charged.

~

Fergus leaned on the tree and wiped his sword clean with a rag, watching the soldiers finish the gruesome job of mercy-killing. The force that had attacked them had not been large, but it had left them all shaken. They had all signed up to fight darkspawn monsters, not men. And yet here they were, ambushed by men.

Gareth drew up alongside him.

“Injured?”

“Tens,” Gareth replied.

“Dead?”

“Hundreds.”

Fergus’s lips thinned. The mystery attackers had not been numerous, but they had been positioned to do maximal damage. The mud and walls of the ravine had slowed the knights and infantry, and their foes had been well hidden.

“Who would _do_ this?” The incredulous question was meant only for his friend’s ears. “We’ve a Blight on our doorstep, and someone attacks _us_? These weren’t bandits, this was a well-planned attack.”

“And now the army is weakened, demoralized, and’s lost ammunition.” Gareth nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he mused with a sigh. “But they wanted the men to rout, not die. They targeted _you_ right from the start… take out the leader, cause the troops to scatter… But I don’t see _why_.”

“My lord,” a voice called. The woman from earlier was kneeling beside a body she’d turned face up. “You’ll want to see this.” She turned as he approached, pulling a favor from the dead archer’s belt. She held it up.

It bore the colours of Amaranthine and Rendon Howe.

~

Gareth seized the offending bit of fabric. “ _Howe_ ,” he hissed angrily. “Fergus!” He stopped when he saw the look on his friend’s face. It was stricken, shocked, confused. “Fergus…”

“I can’t believe it,” the Cousland murmured, turning slowly to look back toward the north. Back the way they’d come. “It’s… a trick? It must be.”

Gareth shook his head. “Amaranthine’s troops were late. It’s too much coincidence.”

“But Rendon… He wouldn’t…”

“Fergus,” Gareth said sharply, cutting him off. He turned back to the woman. “Thank you, soldier.”

“Of course, my lord,” she nodded, recognizing the dismissal and returning to her search of the bodies. The soldiers were trying to reclaim arrows and find the scattered horses. When the two men were alone again, Gareth continued, more gently this time.

“Fergus. If it’s true…”

~

“If it is true, then I am torn in two,” Fergus replied simply, reaching over to pluck the favor from his friend’s fingers. It seemed genuine enough; the colours were right and the stitching familiar. Of course, nearly any imposter worth their salt could achieve that.

“We must act as if it is,” he finally said, looking up. He was just in time to see Gareth stiffen, and there was a flurry of activity as men drew weapons and the archers readied their bows again. He followed Gareth’s gaze down into the ravine.

“I surrender!” The man was sitting atop a horse, hands raised. One of them clutched a slightly crumpled roll of paper. “Message for the Teyrn!” He was wearing the King’s colours and looking around nervously at bristling soldier and battle slain alike.

Fergus straightened. “I am the Teyrn’s son,” he called, and ungracefully skidded his way down the steep hillside. He landed with a showering of pebbles. “Also his general. You can give that to me.”

He held his hand up expectantly for the letter and broke the seal immediately upon receipt. The man’s horse was exhausted, he realized. “You rode hard?” His eyes skimmed the letter, widened, then read again.

“Yes, my lord.”

“How many days?”

“Three, my lord.”

Fergus sighed and reached up to brush the hair from his eyes. Three days. The King’s men at Ostagar had been engaged in skirmishes – or worse – for three days. With a forced march, he and his men could get there in… four days, _perhaps_. And there was the matter of Arl Howe…

He realized he was crushing the letter and abruptly released his fist. He knew his duty, though it shamed his heart. The King was calling for reinforcement with urgency, and Fergus would not be the one to disappoint him.

“Ink?” His voice snapped, and the messenger hurried to draw writing implements and ever-soft wax from his saddlebags. Fergus wrote two letters in his hasty scrawl and sealed them with his ring. One of them he handed back to the King’s man.

“We will come with haste,” he summarized simply before turning away. His eyes landed on the woman. He handed her the second letter, along with the incriminating favor.

“Send a rider to Castle Cousland with this. For the Teyrn’s eyes only.”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied. She folded the cloth to conceal the heraldry before passing him something in turn.

“What..? Oh. You found my horse.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“… Thank you.” He clambered up, and by the time he’d settled himself she was gone. Fergus blinked, then wheeled his horse to face the column of men that stretched down the ravine as far as the eye could see. Most likely, the back of the massive chain of men was _just_ now learning of the ambush. It would take this long for them to hear what he was about to say, the words passed back slowly man to man. But there was nothing to be done about that.

“I know you’ve all had enough excitement for the day,” he began, forcing a small smile to his lips. Then he waited for the phrase to be repeated back by the soldiers in front to those behind. “But I’ve a little more for you: the battle at Ostagar is joined!”

Men shifted from foot to foot nervously.

“So… Gather your strength, still your hearts, and let’s _move_! The King is depending on us!” He wheeled his horse back around, relaxing slightly as Gareth fell in beside him. “Not my _best_ pep talk,” he admitted with a sigh.

“Not your worst either,” Gareth replied, too worried to counter with levity. “Don’t worry. The men know what’s required of them.”

As they took up the march again, Fergus tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew both his duty and his heart, and he couldn’t help but fear he was riding the wrong way.


	3. Chapter 3

When they found the woman in the shearing shed, it caused quite a stir. The farm was in the middle of nowhere, after all, and the little family of three rarely had any company to speak of.

“Is she alive, Mum?” The little boy peeked around her skirts.

“I dunna know, me duck,” the sturdy woman replied. “’er mabari won’ let me by.”

As if to agree, the hound spread its stance for maximal stability and growled. The woman curled up in the hay moaned.

“Mind thysen, good’un,” the woman wheedled the dog. “Yer friend’s needin’ help, jus’ lookit ‘er!”

The hound raised its hackles and growled again.

“Geron up t’the ‘ouse an’ get thee father, duck,” she patted at the boy behind her without looking, nudging him toward the barn door. When he hesitated, she insisted. “Do as thee mum says, Owen, geron then!”

“Yes, Mum…” The boy began to turn away with a grumble, and was surprised to be stopped by his mother’s hand.

“Na’then, bah _gum_ ,” she murmured. “What’d I say that ya liked, good’un?” The mabari had stopped growling, and was looking at the boy with curiously tilted head. “Yer interested in Owen, are ya?”

A single, confused bark. Then a sad, little whine as the dog’s hackles drooped. The woman took a cautious step forward, and the dog took a step back. And so it went, until she could slowly crouch beside the woman in the hay, letting the dog loom over her defensively.

“Geron, get yer father,” she said to Owen again, hands already testing the woman’s brow and carefully peeling aside bits of clothing that clung to half-scabbed wounds. It was a nice nightdress, or would have been if not for the blood and tears. Mabari weren’t cheap, either, and could fend off most kinds of folks that’d go after a woman dressed for bed. As she settled back on her heels to wait, she noticed the ring on the feverish woman’s finger. Slowly, she reached for it, raising the cold hand to take a closer look.

“It i’n’t!” She dropped the hand in her surprise. But contrary to her exclamation, it _was_. That was a Cousland signet, anyone in the Coastlands would recognize it… Even a sheep farmer in the middle of smack dab nowhere.

It left far more questions than answers.

~~~

Kiaralyn looked up from her oatmeal and across the table at the little boy who was staring right back at her. When she smiled, he gasped, and hid behind his mother. His name might be Owen, but he was nothing like brave little Oren. At the moment, that relieved her, and she reached up to toy with her signet ring.

It dangled now beneath the shirt she’d been loaned, the woman of the house wordlessly offering her a chain to hang it on as soon as she awoke. Kiaralyn hadn’t liked to accept it – she suspected that the woman didn’t have many necklace chains to hand out in the first place – but Mardy had insisted.

She hadn’t told them why a Cousland was squatting in their shed, and they hadn’t asked. Kiaralyn thought it was likely for the best. She’d asked a few probing questions about the state of things in Highever, and had quickly realized that word of what had happened in the Teyrnir’s capitol hadn’t spread at all. Hari had even taken off a day to make the trek to town and keep an ear out for the news. He’d heard nothing. So, the less this little family knew, the better for them. Not necessarily for _her_ , but for them.

Mardy and Hari and Owen. They were good people, if a little scared of her. The Couslands were loved by their people, so far as Kiaralyn knew, but she could imagine how a random noblewoman showing up injured on one’s land might be cause for alarm. She sighed, scooped up the rest of her oats, and stood with a quiet grunt as the movement pulled at some stitches.

“Thank you,” she said to Mardy as she brought the wooden bowl over to the washtub. Clumsily, she began to wash it herself.

“M’lady!” The woman snatched the bowl from her hand to wash it properly.

“Kiaralyn,” she corrected. “I know I must seem like a child to you when I wave that sponge around, but let me try? I need to learn.”

“Y’don’ need t’learn while yer ‘ere, m’lady,” the woman said firmly. “We’ll treat ya proper.”

“I… appreciate that, Mardy. I do! But I would _like_ to learn how not to look like an idiot when I’m just trying to wash a spoon.”

The woman harrumphed, then looked up at her with a strange look in her eye. After a moment’s consideration, she gestured Kiaralyn closer. “Alright, then. It’s not too hard, m’la-.. Kiaralyn. Ya jus’ hold it by the stem like this…”

~~~

“Yer the lady what likes t’fight, i’n’t ya?”

Kiaralyn looked up from her clumsy attempts at mending her nightdress. “How...?”

“E’en a noble lass knows how t’use needle an’ thread,” Mardy explained.

“Oh,” she looked down at her knotted stitches. “I suppose that is true.” She shoved the needle’s point into the fabric and managed to jab her own finger. Again. “Ow! Aghck. Wait. You’ve heard of me?” She hadn’t realized she had _that_ much of a reputation.

“M’lad did, e’s a soldier in yer father’s army. Saw y’beat some stuffy bloke in an un-on-one once and wouldna stop talkin’ ‘bout it the ‘ole time he’s back t’visit.”

Kiaralyn took a moment to decipher the woman’s shire accent. “Oh,” she finally said, frowning down at her disastrous handiwork. She desperately hoped the woman’s son had marched off with Fergus. If he’d been in the castle…

“Should I be worried ‘bout ‘im, m’lady?”

It seemed Mardy’s mind was on a similar trail of thought. And she deserved an answer. Kiaralyn felt sick as she set the dress aside and forced herself to look at the other woman.

“If he was to guard Castle Cousland, yes,” she finally whispered. Her eyes fled of their own accord to the fireplace. “If he was to march to war, then… No more than normal.”

For a while, the only sounds in the room was the crackling of the fire, the snores of an oblivious mabari, and the breathing of two women deep in anxious thought.

Finally, slowly, “Th’castle ‘as attacked?”

Kiaralyn nodded.

“’ow bad?”

She wrenched her eyes back to Mardy’s. “I’m here, not there. The castle was lost. _Some_ must have survived.”

“Who did it?” The other woman was angry, and Kiaralyn hesitated. The woman deserved an answer, and she wanted the truth known, but this could start a panic. “M’lady?”

“Howe,” Kiaralyn finally spit out. “Rendon Howe. The Arl of Amaranthine.”

~~~

The revelation had less of an effect than Kiaralyn had feared. If Mardy shared the news with her husband, Hari gave no indication of it.

She must have shared the news. Their own son was involved! But this was a family of sturdy individuals, it seemed. Kiaralyn had been relieved for their sake to learn that while neither knew for certain whether their son was marching south, they thought it most likely. As the days passed and Kiaralyn healed, Mardy fished on occasion for details. Kiaralyn spared her many of them, but knew that the woman understood the gist. It had been an inside job, most everyone in that castle had died that night, and if they hadn’t they were surely under the traitor’s thumb.

Kiaralyn sat down on the chair, sighing at the freshly-mended nightgown in her hands. When Mardy had recognized the significance of the garment, she’d taken it upon herself to fix it as best she could. It would always bear the scars of that massacre… But then, so would Kiaralyn.

She folded it carefully and laid it in the bottom of her new travel bag, courtesy of her hosts. If she were ever in a position to give out gifts again, Hari and Mardy and Owen would be right at the top of her list. They had been so generous, so steady, even as Kiaralyn had effectively told them that a coup had happened on their son’s back porch that was so deadly that word hadn’t even spread yet.

Suddenly, Mardy’s voice sounded from downstairs, high with outrage. “Who d’ya think thee is, bargin’ in like y’own it??”

A man’s voice rumbled some reply, and Kiaralyn stood up quickly.

“It i’n’t yer lands! An’ it’s _my_ house, so gerout o’ere!”

Another rumbly reply, and Kiaralyn decided that she needed to hide. But there was nowhere to hide up here.

“Yeah, me flock o’sheep. I keep ‘em in th’cellar,” Mardy said acerbically, responding to some unheard question. “An’ I keep my gold an’ silver under me pillow.”

As the stairs creaked under someone’s weight, Kiaralyn cursed silently. She was trapped. Worse than that, she would bring Mardy and her kin trouble. She looked around frantically. _There,_ behind the footlocker. She shooed Arcadia into the space and draped a blanket over the dog. There wasn’t room for her.

“What’s this ruckus ‘bout, me duck?” She could hear the backdoor swing shut as Hari’s voice joined the fray, and the creaks ascending the stairs paused.

Kiaralyn’s eyes landed on Hari’s shaving blade and widened as the idea popped into her head. She lunged for it, flipping it open and reaching back to gather up all her long hair with a fist. The sharp blade sheared through it almost instantly, and when her hand came away it was full of long black tresses. She flicked it into a drawer in the humble vanity and grabbed the shaving brush. Still some shaving cream clinging to it.

The creaking on the stairs resumed. Then someone tried the locked door.

“Open this,” the man commanded.

“A right ruffian y’are,” Mardy grumbled. There was more creaking on the stairs.

Quickly, Kiaralyn dolloped the shaving cream randomly all over her face. Then she picked up the shaving blade and walked slowly toward the door, hunching her shoulders forward and shuffling.

When she reached the door, she unlocked it. Then opened it, letting her jaw go a little slack. She watched his eyes widen as he took in the sight of her, standing there a little vacantly with shaving cream on her forehead. “Hello,” she said in a sing-song tone, pitching her voice as low as it would go. She turned back to the vanity and began shaving her forehead, like doing so made sense.

“Kiara-..n!” Mardy rushed into the room. “Kieran, what’re ya doin’? Ye’ll give yerself a nasty’un; didn’t uncle tell ya not t’play wit’ that, me duck?”

“Hello,” Kiaralyn repeated again.

“Oh,” Mardy was beside herself. “It’as the yellin’ ‘asn’t it? Ahm sorry, me duck. Geron, gimme tha’, tha’s a good’un. Sit thee ‘ere on the bed, tha’s right…”

Looking thoroughly unsettled and embarrassed by Mardy’s fussing over an apparent simpleton, the intruding soldier half-heartedly poked around the loft but quickly retreated back down the stairs. Some time later, Hari joined the two women in the loft, and Arcadia wriggled out from beneath her blanket.

“Howe’s man,” Kiaralyn observed. She’d seen his armband.

Hari nodded. “’e apologized ‘en he skippered off, fer what such’s worth,” he sighed.

“I’ll leave tonight,” Kiaralyn replied. “I’m so sorry.”

After a slight pause, Hari shrugged. “Not yer fault,” he said. “But seems y’can’t be saf’ere no more. They’s lookin’ fer ya by desribin’: a woman wit’ long black ‘air an’ grey eyes.”

Mardy patted her shoulder. “Nonsense, no ‘pologizin’. But e’s right.” A slight pause. “What’d ya do wit’ yer ‘air, me duck?”

Wordlessly, Kiaralyn pointed toward the vanity, and when the woman opened the drawer she sighed sadly. “It’as awful purty long, but lemme even it up fer ya, ey?”

Kiaralyn nodded, and turned so the woman could do her work. “I guess I’m going by Kieran, now,” she said, eventually, lowering her voice again.

Mardy nodded. “I guess y’are.”


End file.
